Somewhere behind him an alarm bell sounded. Up ahead loomed the loading dock where flatbed rail cars stood waiting to haul the finished equipment to Bremen for shipment west. Powerful cranes stood by to lift the heavier pieces onto the cars while men with thick chains would batten them down.
The men out here were eating as well, but some of them stood up and were looking past him.
"What are all the alarms about?" one of them asked as Carter emerged.
"I don't know," Carter shouted, passing behind the car. "They don't tell me anything."
On the other side of the track was a grassy field that ran a hundred yards out to a series of old storage sheds and buildings adjacent to the perimeter wall.
He headed across the field at a fast trot as someone shouted something a! him from behind. He ignored it but picked up his speed.
A shot was fired, and he began zigzagging across the field, keeping low as more shots were fired.
Halfway across the field he pulled out his Luger, rolled to the left, then scrambled up on one knee and squeezed off four shots in rapid succession. Two of the guards went down, and for a moment, at least, the firing stopped.
He jumped up and made it the rest of the way to the storage sheds. He ducked behind them, then went inside the larger one.
The oblong of dim twilight from the doorway revealed piles of old motors, stacks of pipe, and other old equipment rusting away.
He closed the door and started down the length of the shed, whose rear wall was formed by the brick of the perimeter wall, looking for a break, perhaps a wooden door or some weak spot.
Light appeared behind him as the door swung open again and a shot sounded, the bullet ricocheting off a metal object to his left.
He hurried deeper into the darkness as other shots were fired, then someone switched on a flashlight. The guards were framed for easy targets in the doorway, but he had not come here to kill anyone. He had come to get information. He had it, and now he merely wanted to get free.
Another shot rang out from behind. They were firing at random, not able to see anything because of the darkness.
Carter came to the metal door set into the thick outer wall, A rusted, ancient padlock held it closed.
He checked his Luger. There were only five shots left. Carefully he aimed to the left of the doorway behind him — he was certain there were no guards standing there — and squeezed off three shots. Someone shouted, and they all took cover.
He turned, stood back, and fired two quick shots at the lock, the second one springing the rusted mechanism.
He holstered the gun and put his shoulder to the door, the ancient hinges giving way very slowly, until he had the door open about a foot, just enough to squeeze out.
Several more shots were fired toward him, these much closer, but by then he was outside and running down the street.
His first thought was the worker's Volkswagen, but the man had been with the guards; they'd have the car staked out. So he headed in a dead run around the corner toward his own car.
Another shot rang out behind him from the metal door through which he had just emerged. Damnit, he hadn't thought they'd shoot at him out here, on a public street.
Down the street a garbage truck turned the corner, the driver obviously in a hurry. The big truck tipped to the side under the strain of the acceleration.
Carter sprinted down the opposite curb as a car passed, and then he was behind the rapidly accelerating garbage truck. He grabbed the handrails at the back and swung aboard, keeping well to the outside so the guards pursuing him would not have a clear shot.
The truck lumbered around the corner, and Carter jumped off as it passed his car. He had his keys out and was racing around to the driver's side when two vans pulled up, each disgorging a half-dozen armed men. He pulled up short. The odds had just gone through the ceiling.
He raised his hands as Ziegler got out of the lead van and came toward him. The bald man did not look happy.
Eight
The tires crunched over what could only be crushed stone. And the air, Carter realized, was much too sweet for a city. They had to be outside in the country somewhere.
The car turned left and began ascending a steep hill punctuated with tight curves. When they hit a level spot, they stopped.
The two men in the front got out, and the driver opened the rear door. "Out!" he shouted in German. He reached in and grabbed Carter by the arm and pulled him off the back floor of the car.
The air was cool here, laced with a pine scent. The driver and the other man guided the blindfolded Carter across a grassy area, and then they started up a steep set of stairs. Carter stumbled purposely on the first step, falling to his knees.
"Scheisse!" the driver muttered in disgust. He cut through the cloth blindfold and pulled it away. Light flooded Carter's eyes, blinding him for a moment. He turned his head away until his vision began to return to normal and he was able to see the outlines of the mountains, the sun sparkling off the snow at the higher elevations. August. Still snow. They had to be many miles from Mainz.
"Raus!" the driver snarled, and they started up again.
High above, a small chalet was set into the face of the cliff.
"Kirschwasser?" Ziegler asked, opening a bottle. Carter stared sullenly into the crackling fire. The general poured himself a drink, then came back to where Carter was seated. The driver and the other one stood by the door. They seemed bored.
"Do you prefer German, or would you rather speak in English?" Ziegler asked, taking a seat across from Carter.
Carter held his silence. If he could get the man angry, he might make a mistake.
"German, then," the man said. "Apparently you are fluent with the language, whereas my English… well, I have been lax over the years. "Ziegler took a sip of his drink. He seemed expansive. "The last time we talked, you represented yourself as a reporter. We checked with Amalgamated Press and found, of course, that you are on the payroll. But I think you are more than a mere reporter. Your facility with weapons suggests you have had training."
Carter looked nonchalantly out the large plate glass window which afforded a spectacular view of the mountains.
"I get quite cross when I am ignored, Herr Carter," Ziegler said. There was a slight edge to his voice.
"Untie my hands," Carter said, looking at him.
"Very well." Ziegler motioned for the men at the door. The driver came over and cut the bonds holding Carter's wrists. Carter brought his hands around in front of him and rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation. His fingers were numb.
"I'll have that drink now," he said.
"A glass for Herr Carter," Ziegler told his driver.
The man went to the bar, poured a drink, and brought it over. His face was devoid of expression, his eyes hooded.
Carter sipped thoughtfully. It tasted harsh yet bracing. If there were any drugs hidden in the drink, he couldn't detect the taste. "Quite a setup here. Herr General," Carter said. "Your Berghof?"
"You might say so," Ziegler said. "But that was another war in another time. We are here and now. And a project of mine is being seriously imperiled by your meddling."
"Sorry about that…" Carter started to quip, but Ziegler cut him off.
"I will find out how much you know about my personal business and for whom you are working."
"I have nine more fingers," Carter said, studying his bandaged hand. "Care to try for two out of ten?"
Ziegler smiled. It was the last expression Carter would have expected from the man, and it gave him a chill. "There are other methods, "he said. He looked up at his men still at the door. "Bring her in."